The Bucket List
by MonsieurMittens
Summary: Sherlock has contracted a terminal illness from his bad... habits, and John wants to help him write and fulfil his Bucket List before his expiry date.
1. Chapter 1

Bucket List: a number of things someone wishes to accomplish before "kicking the bucket" (dying).

Terminal Illness: indicates a disease which will eventually end the life of the sufferer (e.g. cancer).

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Sherlock was always one for secrecy. If they did not need to know, they did not need to find out. There were only a few exceptions, and even they did not always receive the information he withheld. The benefit of that, was no one knew he was keeping secrets. Therefore, no one could care, or be hurt, until some unfixed point in time. In his opinion, he was doing the blissfully unaware a favour. They… were just… blissfully unaware.

There was one secret, one so big it made Sherlock want to scream it out. Let his head burst and his heart explode when he let the 6 little words echo throughout London, bouncing off the rooftops and making people's happiness plummet into a dark hole, just like his. The affected would never recover, never thrive again knowing the load put upon their shoulders; the dark and grim tale of his prognosis.

The world's only consulting detective, had the world's worst predicament.

No amount of treatment could repair his broken state. Incurable. Pursuing a cure would be fruitless. All the money being spent on any experimental nonsense would just flow out of the bank and into the pockets of scientists and doctors who whispered empty comforts into the ears of the ruined. Never was it truly 'alright'. Never could they say they have been there before, because had they truly been there, they would have been blunt. You are going to die. It's unavoidable. This is the cruelty and fragility of life, and you were going to have to deal with it at some point.

Pull out the big guns.

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Everything had been quiet at the clinic the day the news had gotten out. Paperwork. Mounds of it, piled high atop the doctor's desk. John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He couldn't get all this completed before he went home. Overtime, again. Sarah already had his nose to the grindstone, but this, this was overwhelming. Never in his life had he had such an outrageous amount of filing and such to accomplish.

Time moved along at its own pace, the silence of the office unbearable. Broken by nothing. Only the faint _click, click, click _of the second hand moving, it's pattern the same. Back and 'round again, the cogs and gears whirring behind that taunting, numbered face. Oh how time was something everyone had their pitiful love-hate-relationship with. I need more time for this assignment. I need this class to end. It was the friend everyone had that pissed you off to no end, but you always wanted him back. The pole in your back pushing you in the small of your back, digging into flesh, getting things done. The noose when your fingers ceased their rapid typing on the keyboard.

John huffed, pen dragging lazily across the papers. Signature, date, signature, date. The same robotic actions. Until his phone buzzed angrily, screaming for attention. Ah, his salvation. Reaching blindly for the mobile, he knocked over his mug of coffee, letting it crash to the floor, pieces scattering everywhere. "Fuck," he mumbled, turning his head to pay attention. There it was. He plucked the mobile off the desk, and checked his messages. Sherlock, once again, was pestering him.

**John there is something pertinent that you must know immediately. –SH**

Oh?

**That you're bored? I think I already knew that one. –JW**

**No, you idiot. –SH**

John rolled his eyes at the screen, his lips forming a lopsided smile. Only him. Not bored, apparently. That's new. The only texts he received during the workday were the same repeated line. 'John, I'm bored –SH'. Well, sunshine, he knew that. Did the man come to the belief that working with small children and old people with various stages of alzheimers was any more fun that tossing and turning on a sofa? Or perhaps, playing with rigor mortis? Honestly, Sherlock needed to get a good look at reality, because he was not under the same impression as John.

Standing up, John clung loosely to the mobile in one of his hands, and hobbled around the opposite, mug-free, side of his desk and to the door, opening it a crack and shuffling out.

**Someone's in a cheerful mood. –JW**

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Cheerful mood? God, did he wish. Thankfully he'd been blessed with the honourable ability to mimic emotions. He wouldn't call it acting, no. That would be stupid. But sure, if you were foolish enough the fall into the clutches of his amazing portrayal of faked empathy and so on, of course he was cheerful. In all reality, cheerful was the new 'I got out of bed today, managed a shower, didn't collapse going down the steps'. It was a bitter cheerful, if anything.

Today the pang of guilt him straight in the gut, crippling him as he attempted to shave. The voice in his head bouncing crazily against the bone-confines of his skull, screaming at him in a voice filled with spite and bullets.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're a weak monster of a person, Leaving all these people behind; so unaware of your malcontent and state. Maybe you should just kill yourself—oh, _wait_," It taunted, making him tremble, his face scrunching up in denial. No he wasn't weak, never. He was living with this… bullshit, and his own mind had the nerve to belittle him for being the strongest person? For dealing with the constant pain of knowing, just knowing of what you had to face?

"Shut _up!" _Sherlock had roared, gripping the edges of the sink, the razor dropping with a clank to the floor. His knuckles turned white as he looked at his face in the mirror. That was death, looking directly into his eyes, piercing into his soul with unrelenting force. "I am the single most bravest person in my lif—"

"Wrong!" It cooed, the tremors wracking his body, making him splutter and cough into the sink. The cold blue eyes hidden behind screwed eyelids, blocking out the man in the mirror.

And he had dropped to the ground, curled up into a ball on the sopping wet bathmat, back heaving. It all came out on that carpet, the cries of unfairness, of why me, why me. No one heard him. Sherlock was so alone. Eventually John Watson would too. The crying became louder. The razor was picked up, and dragged down an open palm, the scarlet blood dripping down. Coated in filth, the poison of his own body.

The crying stopped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cheerful. Sure. John, this is not a topic to be joking about. Before I inform you, sit. –SH**

**Already am. –JW**

**Don't you lie, John Watson. –SH**

**I'm not lying, jeez. –JW**

**Good. I have stage 3B lung cancer. –SH**

**John? –SH**

**I wasn't sitting. –JW**

**You are a tremendous idiot. –SH**

**I don't think I should be the one known as the idiot. You should have stopped bloody smoking, I fucking told you. –JW**

… **-SH**

**Do you have a bucket list? –JW**

**Why should I? –SH**

**I'm handing in my letter of resignation to Sarah, and coming straight home. You better have a pad of paper and a pencil out. –JW**

**Resigning is rash of you. It's just cancer. –SH**

**Now it's my turn to call you the tremendous idiot. –JW**

_**Fine. **_**–SH**

**Can I hug you when I get back? –JW**

_**Oh my God, fine. **_**–SH**

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John marched up the stairs to 221B, his eyes watering. How did he not know? How the hell did Sherlock manage to keep this from him? No, no, wait. How did he not see it? He's a doctor, they know this. They need to know so they can save lives, and John had not forgotten his training. Before stepping into the living room, the doctor wiped his eyes on his coat's sleeve, sniffling to himself. Crying was ridiculous, but his body couldn't will him to cease the action, and the salty liquid stung at his eyes. It blurred his vision, and made every step a close-call.

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Hearing his flatmate enter, Sherlock rolled over on the sofa, eyes narrowing at the door as the partially hunched form of John meandered in. The cuts on his hand stung momentarily, and he clawed at them, hissing with the touch on the sensitive skin. It had been impulse. The sharp edge, right there, the voice chanting to him to do it. Lay waste to yourself, cover his body in gouges and cuts. Bleed out on the bathmat, have John come home and find you in a puddle of his own crimson blood. The smell of it overwhelming as it had been sitting there, fermenting in the oxygen. The call of John's voice, notes of fear ringing through the air. Then the thud of his knees when he would have dropped to the floor, shaking Sherlock like mad, praying silently that he was just pretending. It was just a trick, a magic trick.

But, luckily for John—dear, dear John—he stopped the assault before he could wreak havoc anywhere else on himself. His hand curled, and the scratching fingers moved away, now aiding himself off the sofa. The fire raging in the shorter man's eyes pierced through Sherlock, filling his limbs with lead, weighing him down. The sheer brutality of the look was crippling, grappling him down like a damsel tied to the railroad track. Maybe he'd do that instead. Jump in front of one of the trains in the tube. That would work. A sickening crack as he snapped from the impact, the speed and force packing a powerful wallop as he went skittering ahead of the grand machine. After the initial killing blow he'd feel nothing, he would float aimlessly around the curved underground passageway, watching his body be crushed under the wheels, the driver unable to stop his train.

There were far too many consequences for that… Just letting himself rot would have to make do, he had been for 3 months now.

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"You," The accusatory finger pointed at Sherlock, visibly shaking from its spot near the table, "I can't _believe_ you. How long have you known? Don't tell me some stupid fib. It hasn't been a week, for Chr- Never mind." John sucked in a deep breath, chest puffing up, and slowly exhaled, his body relaxing. Being outraged at him wasn't going to have a positive outlook for either of them. Deep, slow breaths. There is nothing wrong with Sherlock Holmes, he isn't sick. Tomorrow will be a chipper new day; the sun will shine and he will _not_ have cancer. Wouldn't that be a Christmas miracle? It was August, which didn't aid that fantasy. "Forget about that. That's not what I meant."

Sherlock snorted as he finally pried his body away from his abode, the curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head. "Were you aiming for a more collected approach?" He took a few steps towards John, mind buzzing in response. "Or the classic, television show preview with the dramatic close up of 'How much time do you have'?"

Without a moment's hesitation, John closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, letting his head rest in the crook of his neck. The satin dressing gown was soft on his face, only a minor irritation on his stubble; he'd been neglecting his usual morning ritual. "Enough. You've got enough. We're going to write you this bucket list because I am the most extraordinary flatmate. No way are you going without us going skydiving into some canyon or… or getting matching tattoos. Alright?" His hands clawed at the detective, pulling him as close as possible, yearning for the warmth that radiated off of him in thick, muggy waves.

The lanky body of the receiver quickly molded to John's, his own arms snaking around the man's waist. Hugs were not a strong-suit of Sherlock's. He'd only ever gotten them from his mother, his nanny, or on the odd occasion, Mycroft; but only when he'd gone and scraped his knee on the rocks by the pond. Father never hugged anyone. It was taboo. Although, he hadn't been home often, but case in point: there was never a time when either Sherlock or Mycroft had the wee 'bonding' with the father figure. "Oh, thank-you? It's completely unnecessary for you to be dragging me around on whimsical adventures when I'm just going to go anyway," He commented, pursing his lips.

"Shush," John broke away and laced his hands together in front of him, backing up a step to examine Sherlock's face. God, how had he not seen it? The paleness was clearly noticeable. Yes he was pale, but this was inhuman. He looked so thin and frail.  
With a shrug, Sherlock turned away and lumbered back to the sofa, collapsing onto it, his long limbs spread lengthwise, one leg hanging over the edge. John followed him, lowering himself to sit at Sherlock's feet, raising them and letting the one rest on his lap. "Is there anything you want to do?"

"No."

"Someone's a big help. I had a bucket list when I was fifteen. The big two were to lose my virginity and kiss a girl with tongue," John explained, eyes flicking over to Sherlock's blank face. Sherlock snorted.

"That's stupid." He'd never kissed anyone, nor lost his virginity. Commentary wasn't really something he should have been doing but, when you thought like him, the urge to blurt out something—whether it be witty, scolding, or anything else—was always lingering on your tongue. Sometimes it came out as a rude snap, the person on the other end usually storming away afterwards. John never did, he'd learnt to simply spit right back at him; fighting fire with fire. What was so pleasant about losing your virginity? When you were younger, there were the bragging rights; you were king. Now? A 36 year-old with his virgin status still intact was something society _frowned _upon. If that wasn't warped, nothing was. A low, burbling laugh erupted from John, and he pat Sherlock's knee. Suddenly Sherlock confessed one thing he desperately wanted to do. Ever since the evening at the planetarium, it had been the stars. "We go around the back of the building, climb up the fire escape, hoist each other up to the roof, and you teach me about the constellations, galaxies, everything up there," Sherlock raised an arm and pointed to the roof, a small, contented smile appearing on his features.

John gave him a nod and grinned at him. "Tonight then."


	3. Chapter 3

For the hours prior to night-fall, John and Sherlock had sat in the living area, drinking tea and chatting away about this and that subject of interest; the most prominent being the low-down on Sherlock's cancer. It wasn't a pleasant topic to be discussing, but the conversation would have occurred either way. Whether it be whilst watching the telly, or after belittling someone on the sidewalk, either of them would have popped the question.

"Shouldn't you know this? You're a doctor John," He'd said, fingers drumming against the side of the teacup. It only made sense. Cancer wasn't that difficult to decipher, anyway. The short answer being, cancer—in general—is the growth of abnormal cells in your body. Simple enough for a child to remember. Then there were symptoms for each different type which ranged from each side of the spectrum; coughing, chills, fatigue, loss of appetite, weight loss, and the rest.

"I want to hear it from you."

Sherlock groaned, glaring at shorter man seated on the opposite side of the sofa. "Lung cancer, specifically stage three 'b', is considered advanced lung cancer. My case isn't including the lymph node nonsense," He inhaled a sharp breath, placing the teacup on the coffee table with a miniscule frown "but rather pleural effusion, it's simply fluid build-up containing cancer cells between the layers lining my lungs. Nothing serious." John scoffs with that, shaking his head at him.

"You really like denying the obvious."

"No I do not. Denial provides comfort. I've been denying my illness for three months now, and it's provided comfort, even if it's an odd, completely disgusting version," Sherlock explained, clicking his tongue. The pair dropped into a blank silence then, the only noticeable sound being the occasional wheeze coming from the cancerous man's throat. Neither of them wanted to engage in conversation, the inevitable outcome from it being a useless bicker that would only enrage both of them.

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The night had set a dark blanket over London, the streetlights casting a dull yellow glow over the pavement, casting ominous shadows of vehicles and people. Sherlock and John had scoured the flat for the step-ladder and some throw blankets for up on the roof, placing everything in a neat pile when they'd gathered their store for the winter—or rather, star gazing. Before they headed upward and out, John had made a final dash to the living area for 'something special'; special being an old book on astronomy.

"Why on Earth do you have that?" The detective asked him, snatching the leather-bound and tattered article from him, turning it over in his hands, fingers swiping up and down the cracked spine. "Oh, yes, hello Galileo Galilei, where's your telescope?" He tossed the book into the air, catching it with a playful smirk. "'O Galileo, won't you show me the stars?"

"I am you tosser, now don't be a lazy arse and grab a few of those blankets." John instructed, walking around him to swiftly exit down the stairs, mumbling to himself as he did. That was Sherlock, being a complete joke to lighten the mood. It seemed that his sense of humour had improved greatly over the past few months, no doubt from attempts to give himself a smile. You needed to when you were sickly, happiness helped, picked you up from that little hole in the ground. When you were moping around like a child who'd been denied a sweet from the shop, sickness had the upper hand. It would attack you with its sharp swords and daggers, conquering your body until your own soldiers pushed through their stronghold and cut them until the surrendered. John remembered having a childhood friend with cancer, and he'd said that his doctors told him to imagine sharks eating up 'all the bad'. The boy lived.

Giggling like mad, the lanky man bent over and scooped up the remaining blankets, placing the book atop the neatly folded pile and hastily tailed John. It was hard to contain the overwhelming excitement that throbbed through him, sending colour to his pallid face, making his eyes light up with the joy that had been missing from his particularly dull life. When he was up, he couldn't get down. Couldn't get down, not even level. It was like floating, and he willed the feeling to last until his lifetime vanished.

It took half an hour for the dynamic duo to haul everything up the fire escape, John nearly falling to the ground 2 stories below when his foot slipped. But being John, he'd levelled himself and continued on his trek up the rickety fire escape and up the small stepladder, Sherlock in tow with another load of blankets. They assembled a crude picnic-like area, albeit the inexistent food. A thicker blanket was spread wide on the roof, one side for Sherlock and the other for John, each with their own blankets to cover themselves. It was a picture perfect moment, the two of them lay next to each other, snuggled in the blankets, Sherlock's head resting on his pillow. John had opened his book, the musky scent of disuse filling the air.

"Right, here we are. Pay attention, Galileo's going to knock some stars into you."

"Just you wait a moment. Close your book."

John looked over at him, brow knitting together. "But-"

"Close it." He instructed, shoving his hands under the blanket to keep warm. With great reluctance, the solider snapped the book shut, dust billowing out of it, making him splutter. He placed it next to him on the roof, reclining and letting his head thump quietly onto the pillow.

"So I'm going off the script, then?" John questioned, glancing at Sherlock momentarily.

"Yes. Now, tell me everything."

"Uhm, that's a little too much to be asking of me."

"Yet you quit your job to spend it with your dying friend? Interesting." Sherlock retorted, shifting around to get more comfortable. If asking the doctor to explain stars was too much of a workload, then something was completely wrong in that man's head.

"Touché, Sherlock, touché," he murmured, wracking his brain for an idea. In an instant, his head was flooded with beginnings and different explanations of constellations and the general spacial information he'd accumulated during his lifetime. Finally, he picked out his starting point. "Stars are plasma, held together with gravity. They shine because of the helium and hydrodgen burning in its middle, releasing loads of energy and sending it rippling through space so we can see it." Sherlock nodded along with John's words, squinting at said plasma balls floating in the universe, burning bright and strong. It was peculiar, really, how something so simple provided people with employment and a pastime. They were so vibrant and alive and- "Stars are dead. The light takes such a long time to travel all the way out here to this lump of rock, that they've already burnt out and exploded. It's like replays on the telly."

With a frown, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, the words only coming out as a bellowing cough that made his throat sting. He grimaced, swallowing to try and get his throat smooth and functioning. A moments struggle proved to be fruitless, so he simply began to speak, voice raspy and scratchy. "That's a—ehm—shame."

"Yes, but life isn't always going to go on forever."

"I realise."

"Oh. Right, sorry."

"I don't really care at this point."

Sucking in a sharp breath, John continued, ignoring what his flatmate had said. Obviously he'd accepted his fate, which was disappointing. He'd always been a fighter, why couldn't he keep up that persistent, determined streak that he always had? "Anyway… Ah! See up there, those three stars all in a row? It's part of Orion, the hunter; my favourite constellation." John beamed up at the sky, marvelling in the wonder that was the infamous Greek hunter. All the stories that were behind each different constellation were so utterly fascinating. Only a true genius could have spun tales so elaborate and mystifying that they continued to be passed on for centuries.

"I can't see it," Sherlock hissed, pouting. He wasn't blind, it must be there somewhere, right? Eyes narrowing, he searched the sky for the three-star-alignment but it just wouldn't pop out.

"There!" John raised a hand and pointed to the row of stars, the bright lights blatantly obvious. "C'mon, they're fucking huge you can't tell me that you can't see them!"

"I really can't."

"Idiot, here," His hand disappeared from the sky, and dove under Sherlock's covers, whipping out the man's spindly hand and taking it in his own. Making Sherlock point, he guided his hand to the area, and made him 'trace' along the 3 stars he'd mentioned. The genius issued a small gasp, and smiled brightly. There they were, fluorescent and shining in the shadow. The smile wasn't solely for his discovery of the constellation surrounding the stars, but because of the warmth radiating off of John and onto him, his cold hand warming up greatly. "There, this is all Orion," John maneuvered Sherlock's outstretched finger to make out Orion while he spoke, "It's really beautiful." He sighed, dropping their clasped hands onto the space between them, not bothering to separate them.

They sat like that, fingers eventually lacing together, thumbs rubbing over the opposite's knuckles. It was clear as day now; that they never did want to be apart from each other for prolonged amounts of time. They'd become the same title after a year of living together. Not Sherlock and John but Sherlock-and-John. No spaces, completely attached, as if by glue. Both would be heartbroken by the end of Sherlock's 9 months or so, neither of them would want to view the unavoidable pain that would take over when he passed. The cars passed by on the streets below, honking and wailing sirens in the distance. London was their home, and it wouldn't be complete when Sherlock went. Walking the streets wouldn't have the same sense of awareness, because with the detective, there was always a story, always a secret in a face or a brick. Nothing was just what it was. It was so much deeper.

"John," he whispered, eyes darting around the starlit sky.

"Mm, yes?"

"We're still holding hands."

"What about it?"

"Please don't let go."

"I… never. I promise you."

"Thank you. I've got something to add to my list."

"Do tell," John cocked a brow, rolling over to get a better view at the star-struck man beside him. His face was scrunched up in thought, John could swear the sounds of his cogs and gears grinding together were audible. Squeezing Sherlock's hand, he dismissed the malicious thoughts romping around in his head. Not now, not ever. It was far too special to have his darker side ruin the moment. In a heartbeat, Sherlock had also rolled over and locked eyes with John, staring into him like a microscope. Deep blue eyes on paler, icicle-like spheres. He shifted impossibly close to the doctor, faces only inches from each other.

"It's more of a 'do' rather than a 'tell'."

He did. Sherlock Holmes plucked up the courage that sat deep in his gut, and used it to give John Watson a kiss; the most pleasing thing he'd ever engaged in. It was just one, short and sweet, but John returned it with vigour for the few moments it lasted, a hot tear rolling down his cheek. They were going to lose each other, the most beautiful friendship to ever blossom in the history of the Earth. The dedication that went into their relationship was one unbeaten by any other, shattering walls and barriers as they walked along, hand in hand. Neither of them would admit, but somewhere in their hearts, the three words urged to claw their way out and be said, but it didn't happen. Instead, John chose to bring himself close to Sherlock, and cry onto his shoulder. He loved him, forever.


End file.
